


(Don't) Take it easy on me

by versti_fantur



Category: LazyTown
Genre: Classic Glannithro, Crime, M/M, idk - Freeform, theyre lowkey both kiinda fucked up, Íþró's kinda sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-19
Updated: 2020-07-19
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:35:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25387663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/versti_fantur/pseuds/versti_fantur
Summary: His heels crunched on the shards of glass that were scattered over the floor. His throat burning as he drank the rest of the alcohol before tossing the bottle across the room where it shattered against the wall. He didn’t care; whoever wanted to stay in this shithole of a safe house next could deal with it. Or not. It wasn’t his problem anymore.//Classic Glanniþro yknow
Relationships: Glanni Glæpur/Íþróttaálfurinn
Comments: 4
Kudos: 12





	(Don't) Take it easy on me

**Author's Note:**

> UwU i'm back on the glanniþro train lmaoo hope you enjoy ^-^

Glanni took a sip of cheap liquor (with strawberry flavouring) straight from the bottle as he painted on his eyeshadow, blending out the purples into a sultry smoky eye. It was always a fine line between looking fabulous and looking like you’d been punched. Glanni preferred to dance up and down that line in his six inch heels. 

Another swig and he took a step back from the mirror, admiring his reflection in the dirty, cracked glass. As he turned his head, one of the cracks lined up with his eye, refracting back at him in a spectrum of colours. Behind him the ceiling light flickered and went out, casting the room into shadow, save for where the amber glow of the streetlights outside filtered in between the slats of the boarded up window.

His heels crunched on the shards of glass that were scattered over the floor. His throat burning as he drank the rest of the alcohol before tossing the bottle across the room where it shattered against the wall. He didn’t care; whoever wanted to stay in this shithole of a safe house next could deal with it. Or not. It wasn’t his problem anymore.

His purple painted lips twitching into a grim smile, he slammed the door behind him, old wood rattling on its hinges as the latch clicked into place.

~~~

Íþróttaálfurinn’s balloon flew high over the city, blending into the blackness of the night and blotting out the flickering stars as broken lights illuminated the streets below in hazy yellow and umber. His crystal was oddly silent, hanging listlessly from his hat like a dead weight, and playing on his conscience, even its usual energy dulled and sombre. If he hadn’t been so tired, he might have been worried.

But he couldn’t bring himself to land. The air down there seemed constricting, winding around his lungs like snakes and squeezing tighter, tighter, tighter, until he couldn’t breathe. But up in the sky, far above the outstretched claws of the skyscrapers that reached to pull him down, to make him fall; up here, he was untouchable.

The night wore on, and still he flew, as the lights below flickered out one by one, stores closing, bars opening. Like fairy lights, strung out between the empty husks of the office blocks. Some people may call it beautiful, a sort of urban fantasy, but not Íþróttaálfurinn, not when he’d seen the mountains and rolling plains of his homeland. No, this was ugly and vulgar, the epitome of bleak human architecture. He wished he could sleep.

~~~

“Where is it?” A tall woman purred into Glanni’s ear, crossing her legs as she draped herself over the bar stool, the slit in her dress rising up just high enough as she moved to reveal a wicked sharp blade strapped to her thigh. Loud music concealed her conversation, electronic and repetitive, as to be expected in a club as low-rate as this. Glanni didn’t react, and continued to sip at his cocktail, a lipstick mark staining the rim of the glass.

“Not here.” He watched the strobe lighting flashing through the spectrum of colours, lingering just a little too long on red. “Yet.” He added, as she glared at him, anger seething under her sensual façade, her gaze forceful and halting. If Glanni hadn’t been so sure of his own ability to control the situation, he might have even been worried.

“I can’t hold up _my_ end of the deal unless you do yours.” Her tone was harsh, but her hair was soft as it brushed against his cheek as she spoke, quiet over the heavy bass. Glanni scoffed, tilting his head away from her and pushing her away.

“You have to, you know what will happen to you if you don’t.”

“What will happen to _both of us_ ,” She hissed, more visibly agitated than before.

Glanni laughed harshly, like razor blades on a chalk board. “Oh Hanna-minn, not me.” He waved his hand and the bartender handed him another drink, swirling it around with a straw. “Just you.”

Her face reddened—or maybe it was just the strobe lighting, Glanni couldn’t tell—as she grabbed his wrist, pushing through he crowds to drag him towards the exit, her other hand snaking around her knife. Glanni followed the movement with his eyes, but he didn’t resist. In fact, he was having a rather hard time keeping the languid smirk from tugging at his lips. This was going to be fun.

~~~

Íþróttaálfurinn leaned against the wicker sides of the balloon basket, taking a sip from his water bottle when his crystal rang out, impossibly loud in the silent night, already thrumming with energy again, and he gripped the basket tightly for a moment, before coming to his senses and lowering the balloon, landing on top of one of the endless tower blocks, and scaling down the side. Whatever was happening, it was downtown, and he had to get there. Fast.

The streets blurred into one as he ran, endless awning caverns of grey and black, never ending. He turned down side streets, his intuition leading him to where he needed to be; the music from nearby clubs and bars loudening, blurring into one cacophonic mess. And then, finally, he saw it.

A woman, with a knife held to a man’s throat. Yelling. 

As Íþróttaálfurinn got closer, and the man’s familiar half smirk came into view, his nonchalant posture, leaning against the wall like he were merely on a cigarette break, rather than seconds away from losing his life. 

_Glanni_. 

He tried to remain hidden as he approached, ducking into the shadows whenever he thought they might look his way, but Glanni was too good.

“I was wondering when you were going to show up,” he drawled, and the woman whipped her head around, pressing the knife harder against Glanni’s throat so he didn’t move. It hadn’t drawn blood. Yet. “I don’t know why you bothered, it’s not like I need your help,” he laughed, taking advantage of her lack of balance and smacking the knife from her hands, watching it clatter across the beer-stained ground of the alleyway. But as she lunged to grab it again, he ducked out of the way, heels clicking on the pavement as he sauntered over towards Íþróttaálfurinn, greeting him with a kiss on the cheek that Íþróttaálfurinn pushed away. Glanni pouted.

“Should I arrest her? Or you?”

“No,” Glanni admired the lipstick print he’d left on Íþróttaálfurinn’s face as Hanna stared both of them down, the knife returned to her hand. “Let her go.” 

She flipped them off. “Fuck you Glæpur,” she spat as she tucked the knife back into its strap, giving them one last glare before skulking back inside the bar. Íþróttaálfurinn watched her go, before turning back to Glanni, who was still smirking, seemingly indifferent to the red welt growing across his throat.

“You should go too,” Íþróttaálfurinn said, but Glanni had already linked their arms together, not so subtly touching Íþróttaálfurinn’s bicep.

“I can think of other things I’d rather do,” Glanni’s gaze dropped to his lips as he bit his own, and something stirred in the pit of Íþróttaálfurinn’s stomach. He should say no. Should’ve kept saying no since the start. 

_But he didn’t want to_. 

Not when everything about Glanni was so enticing, his clever words, his touch, even the danger he carried around with him was intoxicating, Íþróttaálfurinn’s own personal drug. Not to mention how he was the only thing, the only real, tangible thing that made him feel like he was still living.

“I’ll get us a hotel room.”

And Glanni’s lips were on his, his hands tangling in the curls at the nape of Íþróttaálfurinn’s neck, the sting of his teeth as he bit down with no remorse, and suddenly Íþróttaálfurinn was alive again.

**Author's Note:**

> comments/kudos make my day better <3


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